


Talked Into It

by helens78



Category: Shame (2011), Wanted (2008)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, First Time, M/M, Plot What Plot, bottom!Brandon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-18
Updated: 2012-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-31 10:01:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/342752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helens78/pseuds/helens78
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wesley's mom really wants him to visit Columbia and see if it works for him.  It doesn't, but the older student who's supposed to show him around shows him a little more than he was bargaining for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Talked Into It

**Author's Note:**

> I actually have no idea what the interview process is like at Columbia; that was just a thinly-veiled excuse to get a college-age Wesley out to New York where he could meet a college-age Brandon. :)

Wesley doesn't even know what he's doing here. He's not a _New Yorker_ , he doesn't belong in a city like this. Well, Chicago's a city, but he takes Chicago in bits and pieces. Wrigley Field. His parents' neighborhood in Northbrook. His high school. Somehow his uncle managed to get him an interview at Columbia, and his mom wasn't about to take no for an answer, despite the fact that Wesley doesn't have the _grades_ for Columbia, let alone anything _else_ they'd want out there. This trip doesn't have anything to do with where he _belongs_ , where he's going to end up.

So he's here, okay, he's been assigned to some fucking Columbia student so the guy can show him around, tell him all the bullshit about why Columbia's great, why he should man up and come here instead of taking the default path to UIC, but he doesn't have to like it. He's not _going_ to like it. He doesn't want to live here, doesn't want to be around all these people all the time, all this _stress_. He's going to go back home and study accounting and get a nice job and get married and have 1.2 kids and a dog and a boring beige sedan and--

And, and, okay, fuck. The guy, his "mentor", he turns when Wesley walks into the conference room, and he smiles. _Jesus Christ._ And it's not like he can be mistaking the guy for anyone else, everybody else has already paired up, partnered off with their own mentors, and it's just Wesley, and this guy, and he's--

"Brandon Sullivan," he says, smooth and simple, taking Wesley's hand in his own big... warm... _God_. Okay. Wesley lets Brandon shake his hand, and he tries to swallow down the nervousness, all the things that are trying to leap out of his mouth at once, like, _how's the gay life on campus_ and _can I suck you?_

He bites at his lower lip for a couple of seconds before he can let himself say anything at all. Finally, he comes up with, "Hi." And then, because that didn't really seem like enough, "Hi. I'm Wesley Gibson."

"I know," Brandon tells him, and holy shit, that smile's giving Wesley a hard-on. Which-- baggy jeans, big sweatshirt, ignore it, it'll go away--

Brandon doesn't ignore it. His eyes drop, linger. He looks back up at Wesley and gives him a look that makes Wesley think he isn't going to see much of Columbia after all.

"Why don't I show you the dorms," he says, and Wesley just nods, because really, _really_. What's he going to do, say no to this guy?

* * *

What he actually says is, "So do y-- _mmph_." And from there on out, Brandon's all over him, mouth on his, hands roaming up and down Wesley's sides. Wesley manages to gasp in a couple of breaths, but he's not the least bit interested in putting an end to this kiss, or the next, or the one after that. What he does instead is plunge his tongue into Brandon's mouth, get all caught up and tangled with him as Brandon backs him over toward the bed. Wesley's thighs hit the bed, and he goes down, sits on the edge of it while Brandon strips his t-shirt off over his head, and Wesley thinks maybe he should do the same.

"Let me," Brandon says. Okay, _bossy_. Wesley can deal with bossy, it's a lot better than fucking shit up all the time. He lets Brandon yank his shirt off, lies back while Brandon unbuckles Wesley's belt and yanks that and his jeans and his boxers down, all at once.

"Hey-- wait-- shoes," Wesley says, and he kicks them off, letting them fall onto the floor. But Brandon's just going straight for his cock, one of those gorgeous hands wrapped around it now, and he starts jerking Wesley off, _way_ too fast, _shit_.

"Wait wait _wait_ ," Wesley pants. He bites down on his lower lip, grunts softly, tries to hold it all off. That smell on the subway this morning. The freaky guy with the dog on the corner by the newsstand. The fucking _Knicks_. Anything, _anything_. It helps, but not enough. "I'm gonna, you have to back off or I'm gonna--"

"I want you to," Brandon growls down at him. His eyes are narrowed, sharp with focus. "You're _going_ to, and then I'm going to suck you until you get hard again, and you're going to fuck me--"

Oh, shit, that does it. Wesley gasps and comes, fucks up hard into Brandon's fist and lets it all go. Brandon's gripping him a little too tightly, but it's okay, it's _okay_ , he's just-- oh, oh Christ, the slickness dripping down over his cock and the way it looks on Brandon's fingers, and oh, God, yeah, okay, he'll get hard again if Brandon-- if Brandon does what he said he was going to do.

And Brandon tips his head down, like nobody needs any time to breathe. Wesley winces, grabs at Brandon's shoulders-- it hurts, he's sensitive, he _just fucking came_ , but Brandon's relentless, his hand sticky as he pins down Wesley at the hips. Wesley clutches at Brandon's hair instead-- fair's fair-- and Brandon just goes with it, sinks down when Wesley pushes him there.

Which is just about the hottest thing that's _ever_ happened to Wesley. This isn't one of the awkward handjobs he's used to, this is... this is a guy who's only a couple years older than Wesley and totally fucking knows what he's doing.

There is no way in _fuck_ Wesley's going to Columbia. This place would chew him up and spit him out seventeen times before _lunch_.

Brandon doesn't look like he's got spitting on his mind, though. Doesn't feel like it, either. He slams his mouth down on Wesley's cock, over and over, and Wesley's starting to get into it, starting to get hot again, get hard. He collapses back on the bed, and once Brandon's got him, once he's all the way hard again, Brandon slips his mouth off Wesley's cock and climbs up the bed, settles down on top of him.

He's taller than Wesley, longer, but he's so lean Wesley feels like he could wrap his arms around the guy's waist _twice_. He's tempted to try, but he doesn't; he just scratches his nails down Brandon's back and then slips both hands under the waistband of Brandon's jeans. Brandon growls under his breath and bends his head down, kisses Wesley again. His mouth tastes like come, a little, _Wesley's_ come, and it's the best thing Wesley's tasted in-- well, since he got here, that's for fucking sure.

"You want it," Brandon pants, but he's not asking, he's telling. He's just speaking the truth; Wesley can let him get away with that. "You want to fuck me. I can smell it on you."

"I can smell it on _you_ ," Wesley says. Not much of a comeback. "You want that, then you better take your pants off."

"Why don't you," Brandon says, swinging his leg over the side of the bed and climbing out. He stands there, and Wesley slides out of bed, too, landing on his knees and reaching up to get Brandon's belt undone.

A couple seconds later and he's got Brandon stripped bare, and _holy fucking shit_ , no wonder Brandon said they'd do it that way, Wesley fucking Brandon instead of the other way around. Wesley wraps an impressed hand around Brandon's cock-- almost, anyway-- and starts jerking him. It takes him a minute to realize: right, okay, Irish accent, _foreskin_ , the guy's uncut, that's what's going on; he's never seen one up close and personal, given the whole Midwest American, born-in-the-'70s thing. "What about you, can I get you off first, too?"

Brandon grabs him by the wrist. "Don't."

"Can I at least _suck_ you," Wesley says. Although now he's said it, he's not so sure he can get his mouth around Brandon's cock.

But that, Brandon's not arguing, so Wesley leans in before he can change his mind. He gives the head of Brandon's cock a good, thorough swipe with his tongue, and then he opens his mouth, wide, _wider_ , takes Brandon in as best he can. He can feel the stretch in his lips, and seconds later he can feel the ache building up in his jaw, but he's _doing_ it, he's _doing_ this, not an _hour_ into the interview process here and he's sucking off the hottest guy he's ever seen. Holy _fuck_.

Brandon takes it easy at first, not pushing him, not trying to fuck his mouth, but when Wesley reaches behind him and gives him a push, Brandon shudders out a breath and carefully presses in a little deeper. That works out well for everybody, so Wesley does it again, another push-- he _wishes_ he weren't too much of a dipshit to pull off a couple of hard porn-slaps to Brandon's ass, that would be _so_ hot-- but now Brandon's got a rhythm going, and it's getting less tentative by the second.

It's good, it's _so_ good, Wesley's starting to think he could do this forever, when Brandon shoves in a little too hard and Wesley has to pull away, choking. Brandon steps back from him, catching him by the shoulder so Wesley doesn't lose his balance, but when Wesley looks up at him again, Brandon's got his mouth open and his hair's all mussed... and there is no way Wesley's not gonna fuck this guy, this is obviously a dream and he's _damned_ if he's waking up before he puts his dick in this guy's ass.

"Get down here," Wesley says, grabbing Brandon's wrist and tugging. Brandon's eyes widen, but he goes with it, kneels down facing Wesley and licks his lips. "Okay. You got something for this?"

"Under here," Brandon says, reaching under his bed and coming up with a shoebox full of tissues, dirty magazines... lube, awesome. Wesley digs around in it some more, but he's kind of missing something important...

"Halfway there," Wesley says. "Condoms?"

"Keep looking."

At the very bottom of the box, beneath a copy of _Juggs_ , Wesley pulls out two lonely condoms, one Magnum, one regular. He's realistic. He takes the regular one, tears the packet open and rolls it on. The tube of KY is half-used, and Wesley quickly rolls it up from the bottom before flipping open the cap and squirting a generous amount onto his fingers. Brandon's got himself bent over the bed now, knees on the floor and chest on the mattress, but he looks back at Wesley as if he's wondering what's taking so long.

"You going to drown me with that or use it to fuck me?" Brandon asks. Wesley wonders if he should get rid of some of it, but-- _where_ , how-- in the end he just thinks _fuck it_ and pushes his fingers into Brandon's ass, shutting Brandon up and making him tilt his head back and moan.

"I think I'm gonna fuck you," Wesley manages to say. And maybe he pulls it off, because Brandon doesn't laugh at him.

"Okay, yeah," Brandon breathes, "go on, do it, fuck me. I'm good."

"Yeah," Wesley agrees, coming up behind Brandon now, holding onto his dick and _praying_ he doesn't go soft before he can get inside him. He's nervous as all hell, he's _never_ done this sort of thing before, shit like this just doesn't _happen_ to him, but he pushes in anyway, the head of his cock stretching Brandon's ass open... ohhh, and just like that, Wesley's _in_ , moving forward hard, slamming Brandon's hips against the side of his mattress. " _Yeah._ "

Brandon groans for him, hands making fists in his messy bedcovers, and shoves back against Wesley's cock. "Fuck me," he pants, "c'mon, harder, give it, here, _do it_ , yeah--"

What the hell does he think Wesley's doing? Wesley catches Brandon's hips and slams in again. It just sets Brandon off into another round of babbling: "yeah, right there, fuck me, hard, c'mon, I can take it--"

"You can--" Wesley takes a deep breath and draws back, and then he drives in as hard as he can, really giving it to Brandon, and _that_ shuts Brandon up, dissolves all his words into a low, broken moan. Brandon's still pushing back, but now he's just grunting for it, groaning, gasping, and Wesley's the one who's thinking of things to say now. _Take this, you asked for it, you wanted it, now you're getting it. C'mon, keep talking, tell me to give it to you harder, is this hard enough? Did you want this? Is this hard enough for you?_

But it's pretty fucking great for Wesley, too, so he keeps his mouth shut and just keeps fucking the guy, fucks him until he can feel sweat dripping all the way down his back into his asscrack. This is the dirtiest thing that's happened to Wesley, maybe the dirtiest thing that's _ever_ going to happen to him, and he kind of wants it to last forever and kind of wants to find out what Brandon sounds like when he comes.

That last impulse wins out, and Wesley bends forward, flattens himself against Brandon's back and reaches an arm under him. It's an awkward little shift until he finds Brandon's cock, and he can't fuck Brandon quite as hard this way, but he's got Brandon's cock in his hand now, and he jerks him, quick and filthy and brutal until Brandon's burying his face in the mattress, screaming for it.

He feels Brandon shooting across his fingers, and it's all over-- he straightens up again, gets his hands onto Brandon's hips for the last time-- one hand just fucking covered in Brandon's come, and how hot is that, _this_ hot, _damn_ hot, God. And now he's not fucking Brandon hard because it's what Brandon demanded: he's doing it because somewhere along the way, he figured out he _liked_ it.

And he likes it a lot. He likes it enough that it blots out the rest of the world, enough that he digs his fingernails into Brandon's hips and thrusts in hard and comes, yelling out Brandon's name, half-collapsing all over again. For a few seconds, he's dizzy, and he plants a hand on Brandon's back, pinning Brandon down and holding himself up at the same time. Brandon's breathing hard, his chest's heaving, but he stays where Wesley put him.

Nothing like this is _ever_ going to happen to Wesley again, he's sure about that.

He finally eases back, one hand holding the condom in place, and he's so tempted to put his fingers in Brandon again: now, while Brandon's wiped out and fucked out and loose from getting reamed like that. He could. It'd be easy.

But his second's hesitation is enough time for Brandon to shove himself up onto the mattress, turning around and grimacing with satisfaction as he sits on the edge of it and runs both hands through his hair.

"So," Brandon says, "what if we get dressed, and I show you the rest of the place?"

* * *

Wesley gets back home, and weeks later he's still thinking about that afternoon. He enrolls at UIC, ignores his mom's disappointed look when he won't talk about Columbia at all ("New York sucks," is his three-word review), and takes accounting classes.

He looks at guys but hooks up with girls, awkward, ridiculous. It was a one-time thing, maybe. Or, more realistically, he just doesn't have the balls to try again. Or, less flattering but even more realistically, he's still thinking about the asshole in New York with the ass dimples and the tiny waist and the big dick, and he's pretty sure it's not going to be the same with anybody else.


End file.
